The Life and Times of the Average Cannibal Meth Head
by Golden Snowflake
Summary: Heartache. Rage. Breaking and entering in questionable attire. Hedonism. Cats. Existential crises. Copious amounts of substances known to cause bodily harm. Enthusiastic psychological meddling. Steamed vegetables. Vignettes on the life of Trevor Philips.
1. Chapter 1

**1 - Missing You**

xxx

The sun casts brilliant streaks of magenta across the sky, a vivid brand on the crispness of the evening breeze. Los Santos is abnormally cold for October. Businessmen are slow to anger when elbowed by passersby and radio deejays recite their talking points an octave lower, their words clipped and restless. It doesn't stop addicts from trailing in to get their hands on their products of choice.

Then again, nothing can stop an addict but death.

Trevor leans back in his truck bed, amber eyes turned upward to the sky. There's a small army of empty beer bottles beside him, standing at attention like a disorganized army of glimmering soldiers. It's enough to make the ground rise and fall like the ocean beneath him but not nearly enough to shut down the multitude of warring voices in his mind, conveniently enough.

It's at times like this, the whole of the city warring and buzzing and rushing to and fro in all of its oblivious self-obsession, that he takes refuge in the solitude of the brittle desert. He thinks of Patricia.

He wonders how she is. Where she is. If she's eating well, if the imminent decay of society showcased hourly on the news worries her. He wonders whether she's encircled in her husband's arms or reclining with a book, trying to ignore her gnawing fears as to his whereabouts.

Trevor occasionally dreams about cutting off Madrazo's other ear. He thinks about this now and snorts, momentarily amused from his reverie.

Finishing his current drink in one long pull, he raises his hand high, releasing the bottle and letting it crash into the others with a piercing sound that slices through the silence of the night. The dull buzz of the insects is obliterated. Heavy shards of green glass spin and wobble over the smooth surface of the metal. The fading tears of sunlight through the heavy gray sky reflect on them.

It's on nights like this when the aloneness is both soothing and deafeningly empty.

As darkness envelops the Bodhi, Trevor sighs and squeezes his eyes shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 - Stat**

xxx

"I got here as fast as I could." Wade's eyes are typically wide in the buzz of the dim light. "I was at the bar with a buddy and I got talkin' to this guy named … I think it was Johnathan. Or somethin'."

"Yeah," Trevor says. "Right."

"We was talkin' about vegetables," the younger man continues, staring at Trevor as hands skim over his threadbare jersey. "He read about steamed vegetables and how they're different. A lot tastier than, well, normal ones."

Trevor shuffles him backward toward the bedroom. "Of course."

"But he was worried that they don't have the same nu- _tri_ -tional value as the gross, normal veggies." He jolts to a stop when his legs meet the mattress. A less-than-gentle shove has him toppling backwards easily enough, scattering magazine pages and tissues.

"That's _really_ enlightening, Wade."

To his credit, the unfortunate idiot had, indeed, arrived at Trevor's place as quickly as could be expected on a busy night. He reeked of alcohol and dollar-store cologne, but Trevor was just grateful that he hadn't shown up in fucking clownface.

Obediently, mindlessly, Wade wriggles up onto the bed, sparing the energy to deliberately kick off either shoe as he speaks. "We were takin' shots when ya called me. I was gonna drive, but a nice lady offered to call me a taxi. I told her it was fine, but then she said that if I didn't take a cab she'd run me over herself."

"Smart woman," Trevor agrees, fingers seeking the bottom hem of the jersey, tearing and fumbling clothing out of his path where it appears. The smaller male shifts docilely beneath him, his stare still bright and undeterred.

"She even paid my fare! There are some really nice folks out there, aren't there, Trevor?"

"There sure fuckin' are," he agrees absently. The boy's body is becoming visible in swatches, skinny from the meth and the searing desert heat. His muscles twitch as Trevor rakes his hands over tattooed skin. Wade jumps when he pulls the button of his pants clean off, his breath hitching as he considers. After a moment he babbles on.

"And the city is so bright at night. It's just too purdy for words." Warm, rough calluses weave over the younger man's hipbones and a squeak escapes him. "Not that I don't like it out here in Sandy Shores, too. The sand is nice. And the cactuses."

"Cacti," Trevor corrects, leaving Wade's shirt flung up around his shoulders and shoving his jeans out of the way with a hard kick. The denim hits the floor unceremoniously, making something skitter loudly out of the way.

"Yeah." Pale eyes peer up at Trevor through the semi-darkness. "What you said, Trevor. _Eeugh!_ "

As desperate as his situation is getting, Wade's bizarre excuses for moans are a far better alternative to his babbling. He shifts against the stained bedspread, chewed-off fingernails scrabbling into the fabric near Trevor's knees but halting before they come close enough to spark an unanticipated bout of rage. The fact that he has enough mental faculties to remember Trevor's distaste for reckless grabbing is somewhere between a grim relief and almost endearing.

"Anyway, I don't know what to think of them steamed veggies. _Nnng._ If it was broccoli it might be good."

"Hey, Wade?"

The younger man shudders beneath him, his skin superheated where Trevor's hands have stilled. "Y-yeah?"

Alcohol and sweat rise above the stale scent of ashes and mold, filling Trevor's lungs with life.

"For the love of God, shut the fuck up."


	3. Chapter 3

**3 - The New Ki** **d**

xxx

Trevor is roused from a half-sleep with his face submerged in soapy dishwater by the buzz of his phone on the counter.

"SORRY TREVOR. THERE'S A KID HEADED TO YOUR TRAILER I JUST SOLD SOME METH TO."

Growling, Trevor deletes Ron's message just in time to receive another. "I TOLD HIM NOT TO."

Disgusted, the lunatic throws his phone across the room, his teeth grinding together with a quiet snarl that shoots pain from the cracks in his incisors straight to his brain. He rolls his shoulders sharply against the cramps burning dully in them and kicks open his door.

"T-Trevor Phillips?"

The gangly kid standing at the mouth of his driveway jumps at the crash of the trailer door against peeling shingles, his mouth opening and closing as the man of the hour bares his fists and cracks his neck like he's ready to fight a bull. Gaze hawklike, Trevor measures him, the panic on the kid's face allowing him a good uninterrupted look.

Jet black hair falls in straggly pieces around his narrow face and his eyes are bright with wariness, dim hope, and a frantic, barely-concealed desperation just peeking through at the edges. The pockmarks of a few acne scars trail across his forehead and cheekbones where the glimmering of sweat has settled. His wrist bones strain through his skin like they're trying to escape something horrible.

He looks embarrassingly lost and pitifully nervous.

Rage smoothed down to an almost-silence in his stomach, Trevor throws his arms out. "Well. You found me. Now what the fuck do you want?"

The kid takes a step forward and dust plumes up around his grungy high-top shoes. "I-I didn't wanna impose or some shit but I wanted to meet you face-to-face. I just figure if I'm gonna be doing business with you, you should, uh, know who I am in case I fuck something up and you need to track me down and beat the shit out of me or something."

Trevor snorts. He appreciates the self-deprecation too much to point out that if the kid were to fuck anything up that badly, a beating wouldn't come close to what would happen to him.

"That, I appreciate. And Ron knows ya, too, so you can contact him if you need to scream at somebody." The psychopath stuffs his hands in the pockets of his filthy jeans, sauntering across the porch and down the steps. The kid's shoulders go rigid and his face turns pale the second Trevor moves toward him. His stare falls to the ground and his slim throat flexes in a gulp. Trevor circles him slowly, critical stare burning into the kid's skull for a long moment as plumes of sand rise up beneath his boots.

He's scared. And yeah, he should be scared. But hell, this kid is _terrified_.

"Name. You got one?"

"Y-yes. Alex Krevitz."

"Mmmm. Sounds Russian." Trevor runs his tongue through the grit on the backs of his teeth as he comes to a stop. The kid's stare is firmly on the dirt between them. His scrawny body jolts once almost imperceptibly as the psychopath nods sharply. "All right, Alex. Ya met me." Trevor leans in close, hissing, "Satisfied?"

The words start out as a snort trapped in the back of his throat and solidify into a loud gulp before coming out. "Y-yeah, yes, yes sir. I appreciate it."

His deep blue eyes flicker up to find Trevor's gaze and hold it.

"Mmmn. Well!" He backs away from the kid, clapping his hands. The sound sends the kid an inch off the ground. "Be seein' you around, Sonny Boy. Now, you can fuck right off back to where you came from."

He's all but jogging backwards out of the yard immediately. "All right, uh, thank - thank you, I..."

Already back on his porch, Trevor slaps his palms against the sun-bleached railing. "Just, ah, call Ron if ya have any questions."

Alex Krevitz nods vigorously, pivots awkwardly on one decimated shoe, and practically sprints away from the trailer. Trevor sniffs and squints after him.

Interesting.


End file.
